The Overseas Workers

we are empty people
like sacks, like rubber balloons
we like to be light in air
so we seek being filled up

it is not helium or hydrogen
it is this need for a talk
a chat,
and we are here for this
a missing you and a missing me

we talk about places, work, masters,
discrimination, then we end with we have no choice anyway
we remain patient and callous
and we conclude with
we are the survivors of this chasing game
we are happy and
we want to stay for what can we do in those places which we call home?

no one lives there anymore
and when we arrive at those doors we are simply met by rats
and bugs

i miss the flowers, they are all gone now
the furniture are old and the gloss has faded
the house is for sale, and my bags are always ready to go anywhere
i do not really know

we are your overseas workers, your heroes and heroines
we have no home for now.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!